


Broken Crown

by milgrom



Category: A Dance With Rogues - Fandom, Neverwinter Nights
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 21:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milgrom/pseuds/milgrom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the mod 'A Dance with Rogues' by Valine for Neverwinter Nights I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Blue eyes like ice under fog blinked once, twice. Wild, loose fire red curls clung to a sweat-stained, clear, round, porcelain doll face. Long fingers on long limbs, trembling, knocking knobbed knees barely held a slight frame upright. She winced, felt along her brow line where blood was half dry, glistening slightly in the low light. Pert lips mumbled, a pained purr settling inside a slim throat.

Intelligent eyes, dashed with a swirl of silver found him observing her between the inky shadows. Sounds of battle, of the Dhorn cutting their bloody path echoed overhead. Over that the sound of the river, the rushing silt waters that lead to the sewers. The soldiers had come here first, utilizing the natural labyrinth under Betancuria. Smart. Cunning. Just as he would of done.

“Who are you?” Sweet sparrow song, curious though each muscle taut, fists balled in a defensive fashion against her sides. A feisty little fighter, scrawny, flighty sweetling – little bird. “Sir –” She straightened her spine, “Were you the one who hit me?” He raises a brow at the demanding, accusatory tone, he moves close to her, smelling sweat, fear and fine soap. Many, many heavy plated boots rumble overhead again and she shivers, gooseflesh bringing out freckles over snowy winter skin.

“It doesn't matter.” He shrugs as he loosens the belts around his chest. He holds those eyes, the ones that are searching him now, studious and cautious, deep and dark, like dangerous waters. “The soldiers killed everyone.” He sets down his blades, the few feet between them seemingly infinite. The clink of loose plate resounds on the stone floor. “The King and his war,” he scoffs slightly, taking in the crack of her noble features. “Have torn the city to shreds. I have seen the King and Queen's heads mounted on the walls.”

The shiver on her skin spreads fast and she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “That cannot be true!” Her song shatters and she heaves a breath. “You lie!” She straightens only to find her limbs exhausted. “We must go –” Her small round face twists as she steps forward, long, spidery fingers with clean nails do not notice their precarious cling to the leather ties on his tunic. “Before the Dhorn find us,” she is hopeful that he is not cruel, that he is showing her kindness.

“I have seen too much blood tonight.” It's honest. “They broke through the kitchens, killing and making their way to the top floors.” He had followed, watching along with Cata, the wretched woman left with a smile and spring in her step, leaving him alone to find his latest pet. Shanna had been cut in two, big brown eyes wide, vacant and gone. “You are the only one left alive, little bird, only you and mice now.”

He smiles, she steps back, smooth steps precise. She has had training, all at the taxpayers’ expense. Only the best for royal blood. He relished this moment – her wide and pretty eyes that followed him now, the flit and practiced motion. How her father’s soul will wail and roil, watching from his dead eye perch as his daughter -- his only child -- is sullied.

“Remove your dress.” She rears back and a thin brow arches artfully. Orbs of chipped ice glint dangerously, searching her peripheral for an exit. But she knows, he can see it, she knows she is caught.

“I beg your pardon,” she scoffs. “You cannot mean –” His hands wrap around bony wrists and he backs her to the wall. Water splashes on his boots, heartbeats, together, pounding rhythm of a forbidden dance. “Don't you dare, scoundrel,” fierce cold fire, inborn and indignant.

“Or what, little birdie?” His teeth sink into the crevice of her throat, tongue tasting the salt of her skin, her heart thrumming dangerous energy against his tongue.

“Stop this,” a soft whisper pleads against his face. He can smell her weakening fire. “Please –” A free hand pulls a dagger from his boot, a quiet slip removes the fraying straps of an expensive, silken gown. It falls away from her perfectly, exposing quiet curves, generous under his hands that have her fully now.

“You are mine by rights for what your father has done.” Again he marks her, roughly paws at subtle hips, pushes against light muscle and a knee spreads her legs. Mumbling, pleading, sweet mouth – begging bird –

“I am NOT yours!” She bellows, pushing with flagging force and kicking out wild and all at once. A hand snakes free and a hard slap falls across his face. He lurches backward as she makes a hard step with bare feet. Where he thinks she is going for his foot twists his left leg painfully from a hard kick to his knee.

“Oh yes, you are.” He hisses, on her again, uncaring now and relishing the sound of her bare back being scraped raw against the stone wall. He manages to pull free her underclothes and wrap a breast-band around her wrists. With a free hand he is exposed and inside of her, pushing against her, giving now reprieve for her shock and surprise.

“No,” she exhales in a harsh breath, any further statement quieted quickly by the dagger pressed to her throat. She tightens around him, throbbing, slick and betraying the crackled words on her lips.

“Quiet, girl.” He punctuates, “it would be a shame to ruin the soft skin of your throat, hm?” Her body slackens and those eyes meet his in defiance. His leg throbs from how she kicked, just the right spot. But she was not strong enough, slim, skinny matchstick girl.

It is over quickly, the little bird quiet, small and silent sobs shaking naked shoulders. She is curled, blood between her thighs. Bruises show around thin wrists, raised red welts from his teeth along the curve of her neck. He shoves his plate in a sack, throws a worn dress from a dropped laundry bag to replace the one he ruined. Sulking little bird regains her standing for a moment, the fury rising in the form of raw magic across her bruised and brittle skin.

“Put it on, birdie.” He rolls his eyes, though set slightly back at the display. “Do you have a name, girl?” He asks, regaining his callous air. Jacia's burning hands flashed before him, the sight of the devastation a mage could bring – “A name for which I can call your song?” He teases, earning a rude, incredulous gesture.

She dresses awkwardly, visibly forcing down the wretch caught in a lump in her throat. What he felt then, in simple clothes with shaking legs, mussed hair of wild, unnatural fire – giving it a name would destroy the simple beauty of it. The cowering bird, natural poise and intelligence, and the sensation and presence of mind that resounds lifetimes.

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice is no more than a whisper.

“Away from this place.” He answers. She swallows hard, looks away and shivers in the cold reality of his actions. “Will you behave yourself?” He allows her to see a little limp in his walk. He approaches her slowly, fixing his cloak around bared shoulders. She does not flinch.

She does not speak as he leads her, a hand around her swollen wrists. Her heavy breath echoes in the dark, winding sewers. She is a brave one, he thinks, observant and distant. Even now, under his thumb so easily, she stands proudly. Walks with subtle defiance, as though she were walking through a noble garden instead of a muck-slick sewer. He is proud that she does not wrinkle her bruised, aquiline nose at the stench.

She does not struggle but stops suddenly in the night air. She takes a deep breath at the sight of the moon over the river before them. She whirls, neck craning upwards to see the steep outer walls of the castle. Fires burn, reflected off the sky. Even in the deep of night the blazing orange makes it seem like day. Tears stream from sunken eyes. There is no sound, just the naked display.

He pulls her away, catching the breath she stole as he turns them from the sight.


	2. Chapter 2

He is tall. Black, brackish eyes. Long hair shadowing sharp features. Scruff along a defined jaw. She will not forget this man, this monster. Shira, the handmaiden she had known the whole of her life. She was dead now, frail body left to Dhornish dogs. The dark man pulls her roughly and she is aware that she is not struggling. It is dreamlike, unreal all that has happened. Her mind run circles, flashing in pale images, paint smearing and dripping down stone walls. The fire that had blazed in the courtyard made the castle seem like a dream. 

And maybe it was. Maybe this was all just a bad dream. But -- 

Mother and Father dead. The city sacked by the Dhorn. The screaming, the fire, the cruel eyes and harsh hands that defiled her, a weight crushing her chest. So many bodies, running, running, heels cracking hard, falling into the stone. Hands that reach for her, tearing at her dress. Corners cut and crossed, stairs that nearly sent her sprawling. And then nothing – blackness and pain on the side of her head.

“My name is Aveline,” she says suddenly. The shadowed man stops, turning narrowed eyes on her. Her legs threaten to crumple beneath her but she holds firm. “Princess Aveline du Lac, second of my name, first born to King Galahad du Lac, fifth of his name. Divine ruler of Betancuria.” She can feel her face contort. “You cannot do this to me.” She breathes through her nose, pulling back against hands twice the size of her own. “Unhand me now!”

Her voice never climbs above a sharp whisper, but his nostrils flare at her display and he laughs, roaring with head thrown back. It is a cruel sound, callous, cold wind and dead winter. Her body shies innately away, cowering.

“Is that so?” Incredulous man, she thinks, her heart clamoring into her throat as he presses her against a dirty wall. The stench of the sewers is assaulting, the smell of him too – oil, sweat and stone – sinks into her flesh. “Does your life have no value?” Serpentine words, a snake in human skin. “Shall I fetch a pretty price from the Dhorn for you, Princess?” He hisses, a cruel pair of fingers gripping her chin. He forces her to meet his eyes. “Your maidenhood for the rest of your simpering life, aye a fair price, I say.”

She gnashes on her tongue and spits into his face. It serves to only earn a hard slap. A fierce sting that he forces her to stand against. It is enough to quell any further protest. She follows him now, because she must, because fear has taken her now.


	3. Chapter 3

They move silent the rest of the way. It takes a quarter hour to reach the concealed basement of the Bearpit. The glances and whispers of his comrades are focused on the little woman being dragged by the Family's top enforcer. The speak of blood, bruises and vacant expressions – of fire in the streets, rioting, looters and rapists.

Nathan is waiting, old man strong and scowling, disapproving of the recognizable face. The formidable man huffs and shows the pair, so like black and white, darkness and day, sun and moon into a side room. A thousand questions hang in the air, the thick walls of the restaurant muffling the insanity outside. Betancuria in chaos, Vico nearly sneers. He pushes the broken doll into a chair. She sits without protest, eying the room and old man warily.

“Well?” Master Nathan's voice is hard iron, as ever.

“The royal house has fallen. Betancuria belongs to the Dhorn now.” The black knight answers, shifting in creaking heavy plate. He rolls the shoulder and a shimmer of red shines along the sheath of his long and fearsome blade. He casts a glance at the captured bird, perfect posture, little hands folded in her lap. Nathan does not regard her directly, but Vico can tell the old man is curious.

“This little bird stumbled into me while I was making my way out. I thought she could be useful.” He answers the unspoken question, surprisingly straightforward.

“The dead don't pay.” As always, Nathan read him well – ransom had been a prevailing thought, but the image of her gone away did not sit well in Vico's stomach. She was his now, had always been, his blood whispered in a thousand voices. “The Dhorn will have our heads if we keep her.” The girl paled, dull eyes belying the vacant and absent expression plastered on her face.

“T'would be a shame if we overlooked such an opportunity.” The dark man schooled in fire, shadow and casual cruelty inspected his fingers. “She is fierce,” His statement was a simple one but said much. The disgust on Nathan's face was enough to make a cruel spit of laughter curl on Vico's tongue. The black knight knew the old man held a distaste for his way of doing things. But his jobs were clean, and his loyalty never questioned.

The thick silence of pondering sits between the two men before Nathan turns to his lumbering guard. “Get Chella.” He says with a flick of his wrist.

“So, we're keeping her?” Vico smiled a lascivious thing, the placid creature ignorant of her luck.

“For now.” Master Nathan sighed. “What shall we call you, girl?” He turned to her now, calling her attention in easy manner.

“My name is Aveline,” she spoke in a breathy voice, earning a huff.

“I suppose it is a common enough name.” The old man shook his head. “We'll keep her in the kitchens, until the Dhorn have settled. Then we will see.”


	4. Chapter 4

Months passed dully. The sun rose in the morning, set in the evening. Rain fell often, humid air shifted slowly into cold wind and blankets of snow. She dreamed of fire, familiar faces dissolving into shadow. Dark eyes so mesmerizing and cruel. Screaming, always, screaming and crumbling stone. The other girls in the kitchen walk in bare feet. In the heat of summer, the sound of it reminds her of running, of that night forever etched in her mind.

Exhaustion helps, monotonous tasks of scrubbing pots, Chella's motherly tones and sweetness. The fondness of the other girls, the waitresses and cooks. It is safe here, she knows. News comes like trickling water, scant and only when ship traffic is heavy. There have been an increase of troops in the city, taverns and brothels closing under harsh, close-minded laws.

The anger and primal vengeance she feels, a heavy shadow and whisper in her ear tells her to recoil and fight. To strike and massacre. Pay back ounce for ounce of cut flesh and blood. Never before kept as she was safe behind ancient walls had she felt the cold hands of vengeance.

She whispers the names of the betrayers, the ones who had sat on the council beside her father. They remind her. They are the heavy stitch in her chest, the poison that now clots her veins.

“Wake up, Gemma.” The name Master Nathan chose, the one she saw as a mousey girl with brown hair dyed by labored hands. “The sun is up,” Trissa says, yawning, stretching in the low light of morning.

“Okay,” she whispers, dressing in the shadows quickly, phantom smells of oil, sweat and stone churning and breaking her appetite.

Work is simple, routine. She is small so she climbs to the deep part of the hearth to clean it before its lit. Next come the large pots, scrubbing them to a dull copper shine down to the smallest pair of tea cups. Overhead she can hear the morning patrons, muffled voices and sleepy steps creaking the floor boards. There is always dust in the kitchens, so the little ones, the twins are always sweeping.

They move in a dance-like motion, murmured conversation simplistic. Couriers and delivery boys come and go, only perking her interest in the chance a certain one appears. Caron, the very opposite to the black knight who haunts her every step, comes once a week. He is kind, gentle, everything Vico is not.

Caron was a reminder that the world still held chivalrous men. That not all beauty had been reduced to ash in one fell swoop. That scoundrels on pale horses could be defeated. Nightmares retreated from his presence.

“Hey Gemma,” he leans on the crate he sets down. Arms fetchingly tanned from the outside. “What's cooking?” He steps close to her, leaning over her shoulder casually. After Vico, she thought she would die from the slightest touch, but Caron did not make her feel that way. Perhaps Chella's comforting words had some truth – All wounds heal, my darling girl, even the ones that don't.

“Barley soup, fresh lamb and I think there's fresh eggs.” Her hair is no longer red, instead it is dyed a mouse brown. Long curls, waves that were thick and surrounded her face like the mane of a lion were cut rough to her shoulders. Caron winds a small curl around his finger, bold in a small way and smiles with a hum in his mouth.

The precious moment is ruined by heavy steps. A gruff voice coughs indelicately, drawing her attention. A cold sweat forms at the base of her spine at the sight of him. “Vico,” she inhales his name, along with that pervading scent of oil, sweat and stone. Dark eyes, dangerous deep waters find her, are drawn to her. She can feel color draining from her face, air will not leave her lungs. Her bones are tight and her legs tremble with the promise of flight.

He is the void that resides in her now, the vacuous hole in her center, cold fire that consumes all. Lightning crackles on her fingertips. Caron moves, sensing her discomfort and stands between the black knight and herself. He reaches a hand behind his back, finding hers and giving a light squeeze. It's enough to breathe again as the seconds stretch for lifetimes.

“Good morrow, little bird.” His deep baritone sinks like teeth on her ear. A memory with it, marking her, raking rough fingers and blunt nails along her ribs.

He strides forward, his presence alone enough to shrink Caron aside, to fill the room with his looming shadow. Her heart slows, time along with it. He takes her hand, pressing a kiss to it, daring her to crumble or fight.

She neither frowns nor smiles, giving his brow a curious arch. “Good morrow,” she inclines her head, hiding the panic that she swallows hard, “Vico.” His name is difficult, ever on her mind, just like he wants.

“You have not been eating,” he clicks his tongue and wraps a large, brazen hand around her hip. That night swirls behind her eyes and she nearly falls prey to the waiting black, but holds firm, though barely. He reaches for an apple, red as blood and gives it to her, forcing it into her hands. He tucks a loose curl behind her ear and drags a finger along her cheek. She is nearly undone, nearly gone and drowning in memory. The waters are just over her head when Chella enters the kitchen, scowling, rolling pin tight in her hands.

“Vico,” Chella's rough accent turns all of their attention and she shakes slightly, breathing now at the sight of the woman's all-knowing eyes. “Nathan's hollering for you, boy.” The rotund woman says sharply, reminding him that he skulks in her territory now. “Better get up to see why, hm?”

The dark and shadowed man releases his quarry, the tingle of cold iron fear fading in his retreating steps. The kitchen floods back, taking the heady silence with it. There is bustle, Chella's comforting squeeze. Caron shuffles to the wall, a defeated expression on his face. But she couldn't have stopped him – he does what he wishes, without care or reason.

“Go to your room, child.” Chella says. “Lock the door, I'll have a word with Master Nathan, all right?” She nods and takes deep, even breaths. She moves mechanically, locking the door and lifting a hand to her face to feel the tears that are pouring freely from her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

She sleeps so soundly, pert lips parted slightly, faint fever blush to her round cheeks. She is peaceful, her brow relaxed and hair loose about her pillow. This fragile creature, slow black flames in her heart, his obsession rankles her. There is a small hum in her throat. He watches her heartbeat slow and steady pulse in the visible veins. She doesn't get much sun confined to the kitchen, her freckles clear and present against the stark pallor of her skin. There is a small silver scar, a thin line left from his shallow cut. His hands remember how heavy his dagger had felt as he pressed it harshly against her neck.

The vivid visage of Shanna's mutilated body had driven him to destruction. The beautiful and frightened thing before him needed to be taken apart, piece by piece. The condescending gaze she had given him, her own callous words. Her woeful sobbing over the death of the bloody king.

Saving her though, that had been a quick decision spurred by the moment. Taking her in the fashion he did formed something in his mind. She was his. There was something between them. To have her, always, he needed –

Her eyes open. It is dark in her room, pitch black but she still sees him. Those hollow orbs of blue and silver bear their own light and find him. She does not stir, she does not flinch or sit up. She is not startled. Like she knew in the depth of her dreaming that he was there.

“Vico,” his name on her tongue slinks around his hands, spurring them to seek out the scar he gave her, regretful fingers tracing its path. All still her eyes hold him, unafraid.

“Hush,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.”


	6. Chapter 6

She had dreamed she was sitting on the castle battlements, feet dangling bare, kicking idly. She soaked up the sun and ocean air, relishing the salt spray that hitched a ride on the wind. It had been quiet, she had been alone, dressed in that forest green gown. It had white fur trim, leather corset and fine stitching the color of rough gold. It was perfect for riding, warm enough to withstand an early winter chill. Hair flew wildly about her shoulders. There was no thought in her head.

But that peace shattered. Unwelcome visitor clad so in shadow and wearing cruelty as a crown. He sat beside her, warm hands wrapping around hers. His eyes hold her, they trace a wicked path of memorization of every nook, cranny and mark. Some he gave her, some were earned – but she knew, her flesh was his, all above, below, in and out, she had been made for him.

She stood quickly, his touch sending her into a panic. Arms reach out, grappling for the edge of her skirt as she tumbles, falling weightless. She cracked to pieces, porcelain shards on the rocks. And he screamed, dove after her, not quick enough to shield her, losing her over the edge.

It woke her, the sound of breaking. Her skin was soaked, her shift sopping in her twisted sheets. In the dark of her room she sputtered, whirled about searching, wondering if he was there. A weakness, her cruel captor a desire she can never name. Only now, only through a dream. His dark eyes had been panicked, his voice hoarse and bearing emotion instead of ice, venom and spite.

But he had followed her into the rushing waters, broken apart with her on the jagged rocks.

She ran fingers through her hair, trembled, though the night was humid and dank. The sounds of sleeping cooks and Chella's light snoring were a comfort, but the walls moved in, bearing whispers of the night he claimed her. She can hear her own voice, pleading and feel the muscles tear inside her all over again. The sick feeling of blood between her thighs after, his nonchalance. His silent proclamation that she deserved being stolen from.

Bare feet tingled on the cold stone floor. She moved quickly, silently. A small sack, her other dress and soft leather boots. A few hard apples from the kitchen, she moved on air, frantic and fumbling for the loose wire left on the tabletop. Caron had shown her how to curl the thin metal and use it open locks. Effortlessly she sprung the door to the hall with a satisfying click. She shuffled quietly, ears pricked for the slightest murmur of a sound. The air provided only sharp little intakes of breath, but it served to wear the silence as a shroud. Panic flooded her as she moved, the Bearpit tavern empty and blessedly silent this small hour of the night.

“Flying away, little birdie?” Her heart stuttered to a halt and she jumped quickly back. But he had her, captured wrist and looming frame pressing her to the wall. Her small bag clattered to the ground.

“Let me go,” she breathed out.

“Where are you going, so late, hm?” His eyes flashed dangerously and a cruel curl manifested on his mouth. “So eager to have the Dhorn find you?” His voice was hard. Angry. “You think a little dye in your hair and raw hands hide you, princess?” He read her perfectly, as though she bared open her mind for him wholly.

He pressed her harder against the wall, driving her up with his knee. She had no room to maneuver a kick, she had been lucky last time and she whimpered. Weak, sniveling girl, she chided her mind as he overpowered her. The gruff man drove her so her feet did not touch the ground, his body supporting her weight.

“Well?” He asked in a demanding breath.

“I wasn't leaving,” her voice came as a whine and she could feel fear and desire flowing equally through her. It was damning, weighed heavy, guilty and terrifyingly within her. “I just –” Hands found her, hot exhalations of her name settled absently on her neck. She understood him then, the desire between them unspoken. She was a fool, she must have been, to want him then.

“Don't,” he kissed her, roughly, holding her face in his hands, crushing her between the hard plane of his chest and the splintered wall. “Lie to me, Aveline du Lac.” His voice faltered on her name.

She could taste blood as his teeth worked her bottom lip, egging her on, daring her to give into this. He would take her again, his coiled body spoke. “Please,” vague words fumbled from her mouth, begging him to leave her alone, to have her, indecisive and cruel. Rational thinking leaves her quickly when his tongue demands entrance to her mouth again. His hands are twining in her hair, and her own arms, she finds are wrapped around his neck. It is like she is someone else, clinging to him, tightly so enough she could find a way inside his skin. She would settle there for all time, infinite and intrinsic.

“I,” she flutters between his rough marking of her throat and collar bone. “I would not,” a throaty moan escapes her as his hands hook her legs around his waist. He peels away underclothes, slowly and with careful fingers this time. Warmth pools in her center, she can feel her body betraying the shreds of her mind as he enters her, quickly spreading her apart and shattering light and thought in an instant.

He covers her mouth with his, tasting her moan, mingling breath and satisfaction of this feeling. It fills her, primal want and need, the lines between them blurred by hushed sounds of their coupling. There is a smack of skin, slicked with sweat. Eyes are open, a pair dark and a pair light, entranced like snakes. Nothing else stands in this precarious quiet, she takes him deeply, body spreading easily for him, the former pain and blood not present this round.

She doesn't flinch when he hisses, latching sharp teeth on her throat. He fills her fully, body shaking and a hand on her abdomen trembling. It is only minutes, but the inky darkness holds them carefully now. He rests inside her throbbing, her walls trembling against him, holding him tight. She is loathe to release him though the wrongness pervades in her mind. He was so vile, so wretched. He deserved no less than to be flayed alive. To watch as she slices him to bits before plucking out his eyes.

But he slips from her, unreadable in the low light.

Silently she gathers her things and returns to the small room just off the kitchens. She climbs into bed, remembering soft and rueful touches to the scar lashed across her throat. Thoughts of him, the smell that covers her now of oil, sweat and stone. A heart that rages against body and mind, thrice behold the betrayers!


End file.
